


Wolf Tamed

by hyenateeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Canon Era, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Hair-pulling, No Safeword, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/pseuds/hyenateeth
Summary: “I thought you might like to be tied with your own cravat.”Montparnasse refused to visibly react. She was the same as always - inelegant and blunt, almost hideously straightforward. Montparnasse was a man of taste, and Éponine had no palate to speak of.But sometimes, even an inelegant meal was satisfying. And he did want to be tied with his own cravat.





	Wolf Tamed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hal9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hal9/gifts).



> Contains kink that is under-negotiated and generally practiced by two horny young people in the 1830s who don't know anything about safe BDSM.

Éponine was in his room.

Montparnasse realized that before he even opened his eyes. He was used to sleeping light and with a knife under his pillow, and he had grown to recognize the soft pad of the Jondrette girl’s bare feet, even when he was just barely stirring. 

“Surely,” he called out into his dark apartment, pushing himself up onto his elbows and reaching for the lamp near his bed. “You know better than to try and rob me.”

Éponine’s only response was a laugh - more a harsh bark than anything, and a moment later Montparnasse lit his lamp, illuminating the small apartment with long shadows that hollowed out Éponine’s face even more. 

Montparnasse did not care about her face though, as thin and sallow as it was. Too narrow cheeks, too sunken eyes, too crooked teeth - those were all unremarkable to him. The starving, the destitute, the indigent - that was who Montparnasse spent the most of his time with, and he didn’t care about them one wit. If Éponine suffered, that was her business. The scent of alcohol that she carried with her was none of his business either, though it did provide at least some explanation to her presence. 

What he did care about was on her body. 

“Is that my waistcoat?” he snapped, throwing his threadbare sheet off of him, rising to his feet. 

Éponine laughed again, a cackle like the witch she was, and spread her arms so he could see that yes, she was indeed wearing his waistcoat - one of his nicer ones - only printed cotton, but finely printed, and a striking imitation of more expensive fabrics. When he wore his overcoat you couldn’t even tell how threadbare the linen back of it was. 

“It took you long enough to realize,” she jeered, doing a turn, showing off the strange sight she was - a man’s waistcoat and a woman’s skirt. “How does it look on me? Do I look handsome - like one of those pretty boys you bed?”

“You look ridiculous,” he replied, leaning against a wall, surveying the girl before him - drunk, and burglarizing his clothes. “It would take far more than a poorly worn waistcoat for me to bed you.”

Perhaps that was why she had snuck into his room so late. The nature of Montparnasse’s relationship with the Jondrette girl was… hard to define, to be gentle about it. She was not his mistress - both would have balked at the suggestion, and he felt no excessive tenderness for the gamine, but bedding Éponine was not something unfamiliar to him.

Or, being bedded by her, to be more accurate. It was convenient, that their predilections aligned the way they did.

“Oh is that so?” she said, her demeanor changing ever so slightly, her back straightening and her eyes focusing on him, with the attitude of a cat watching a mouse.  Yes, Montparnasse may have been right then. “What would it take?”

“Shouldn’t be at home Éponine?”

“What, with my father? You know as well as I that he is not fit to be around on the best of nights - why should I have to suffer his presence when he feels quarrelsome?”

“So I must suffer yours?” 

“I suppose so. Here, look at this.”

Then she grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling it back and holding it behind her head in an attempt to hide it from view. 

“There now, what about this? Do I make a convincing dandy?”

“Is this your plan then? Steal my clothes and try a new way of wooing that fellow you have been chasing around?”

Notably, Éponine hesitated. Then, she rolled her shoulders, letting her dark, thin hair fall back around her shoulders.

“He is not mine,” she said, too casually. “And I am not drunk enough to think you would let me walk off with your clothes.”

“What did you think you would do then?” 

Éponine bared her teeth, in a smile that was much like that of a wild animal. 

“I thought you might like to be tied with your own cravat.” 

Montparnasse refused to visibly react. She was the same as always - inelegant and blunt, almost hideously straightforward. Montparnasse was a man of taste, and Éponine had no palate to speak of. 

But sometimes, even an inelegant meal was satisfying. And he did want to be tied with his own cravat.

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” he said, finally. 

Éponine hummed thoughtfully, quickly taking on the appearance of glassy eyed indifference. It was an affectation, a play at aloofness that Éponine certainly didn’t possess - but that was what excited the both of them.

“Alright,” she said, waving her hand in the imitation of a fine lady. “Dress me then.”

Montparnasse blinked at her. “What now?”

“I think you understood what I said Montparnasse. Dress me.”

It was a test to begin - to see how far he was willing to go. He had played this game with her before. 

So, after thinking it over, he nodded. “As you wish.” 

And the game began.

He undressed her first, taking no time to be tender about it. This was not a romantic act - it was purely an act of submission. 

So he stripped Éponine of his waistcoat first, and then her skirts and chemise, exposing her small breasts and narrow hips. 

She barely acknowledged Montparnasse through most of it, playing her part to a tee. He was like a servant to her - which was the point. 

Next - came the dressing. A white linen shirt that Montparnasse kept fastidiously white to hide how old it was, black trousers that he had repaired 3 times but were still fashionable, and of course, the waistcoat.

He tied a cravat around her neck last - red - and then sunk to his knees, under the pretense of straightening the buttons on her waistcoat. 

“Well,” Éponine said, gripping Montparnasse’s shoulder - a subtle reminder of their position, him on his knees, her above him. “How do I look?”

She looked… handsome in a way. The illusion would have been convincing, if not for her loose hair. But her appearance wasn’t what was important, as much as their contrast  - her fully clothed in his clothes, him in nothing but a nightshirt. 

“You look almost proper, in my clothes like that.”

“Do you like that? Me taking your clothes from you, treating them as my own? I wonder, what else of yours could I take?” She smirked, all traces of intoxication gone from her face. She was fully in the game now, fully in control. But she had already taken the control, when she had Montparnasse dress her.

“Why don’t you go lay on your bed again,” she said - no, ordered. 

And Montparnasse could disobey her. This was his apartment, his clothes, and she was just a street girl- 

But he wanted to obey. 

So, slowly, he began to stand, but before he could Éponine stopped him, one hand gripping his shoulder harshly, the other grabbing his hair, tugging back hard enough that he hissed.

“I did not say you could stand,” she chided, smirking like the devil. 

“Ah- you bitch,” hissed Montparnasse, twisting his head some, enough to struggle and hurt but not enough to break free. 

“You can crawl, or I can drag you. I wouldn’t want to tear out any of your lovely hair, though I suppose you could always cover it with one of your fancy hats.”

Abruptly, she let go, before stepping back and folding her arms, watching him. 

“You wouldn’t,” he hissed.

“There are a lot of things I would do,” she answered smugly. 

So, gritting his teeth, he obeyed, slowly shifting so he was on his hands and knees and crawling over to the bed, his knees hard against his wood floor. Despite himself, his face burned. What he must look like - the prince of crime, in a knee length nightshirt, crawling across the floor. It was humiliating, but he could feel his arousal growing.

“Look at you,” she praised. “The wolf tamed. Do you like this, Montparnasse? Does it make your cock hard?”

“Foul mouthed whore,” he sniped back, even as he crawled on to the bed. 

“I think you’re the whore here.  Maybe we could have swapped clothes entirely - you would make a pretty grisette. Though your nightshirt is an adequate illusion I suppose.” 

“I would be a prettier grisette than you make a dandy.”

“Do you like that - being pretty? Is that what you wish to be? Delicate and breakable?”

Defiantly Montparnasse sat up on the bed at that, glaring at her as she sauntered across the room at him. 

“You know as well as anyone that ‘delicate’ is not what I am,” he growled at her.

Éponine smirked as she reached his bed, and roughly shoved him back, climbing onto his thin mattress to straddle him, and in the same smooth motion, grabbed his wrists, pinning him down with one hand.

“That’s what makes it fun though,” she teased, tugging at the cravat around her neck with her free hand. 

“I hate you,” he snapped, grabbing the iron frame of his bed, not resisting as she brought the cravat to his wrists.

“That makes it fun as well.”

The cotton of his cravat was rough against his wrists - not as fine as silk would feel, but Éponine was good with knots, and the pressure of it on his skin made him flush. 

“Now then,” Éponine said as she finished tying him to his bed frame, wrists bound together. “You never answered my question earlier. Does this make your cock hard?”

Before he could answer she reached behind her, pressing her palm flush against the front of his nightshirt - where she could damn well see that he was hard, the linen doing little to hide his erection. 

Montparnasse swore at the contact, bucking his hips up into Éponine’s palm - and immediately she pulled her hand away. 

“How vulgar,” she teased. “What a needy whore you are. I wonder, what have you done to deserve my touch, when you have done nothing but spit hatred at me?”

“You’re lucky it's just my words I spit at you.”

“See, this is the kind of attitude that just won’t do.”

“You’re plays at being a proper lady don’t fool me Éponine.”

Éponine laughed. “That’s not what this game is Montparnasse - or did you forget?” And then, she grabbed his throat, squeezing menacingly, but not enough to block his air. Yet. 

“I am not a proper lady here - I am your master, and you, my whore. I have taken your clothes - again, what else could I take?”

It was a question - one that Montparnasse could answer with obedience. But he did not want obedience. Flames licked his belly, and he wanted to be consumed, to have her control everything, even his breath. It was a wild, primal hunger - one he could not contain.

So, he spat at her. 

That almost took her by surprise, from the way she jumped back, eyes wide at his audacity. Then she smirked again.

“So be it.”

And then not one but two hands were around his throat, calloused on soft skin, and then she squeezed. 

If the pressure on his wrists had been good, this was incredible. As breath left him, so did control of his body, and his hips rocked, his bound arms struggled, his cock throbbed, and he could hear Éponine’s laughter above him, sounding far away. 

He didn’t know how long she held him like that, but it wasn’t until true pain and panic began to edge into his mind did she release him, air flooding back almost too fast, his humble apartment spinning around him.

“How exciting,” Éponine was jeering, as his vision slowly focused. “Your face is so red. Do you think it will bruise?” 

“You- You bitch-”

“Ah-ah, no talking back, whore.” 

And then her hands were on his throat again, and it began again - stars and struggling and tears leaking out of his eyes - and then the heady rush of air when she released him.

“Yes,” she mused as Montparnasse gasped and writhed, throat dry and sore, desperate for any kind of touch on his cock. “Yes, that will bruise. You’ll have to hide it with a cravat - maybe this one!”

“Please,” he finally choked out, throat horse, rough. 

“Please? Please what?” 

Montparnasse grit his teeth. “Please… touch me.” 

Delicately, Éponine reached out gently brushing away the tears that had involuntarily stained his cheeks. 

“That is more what I like to see. You can be tamed after all.” And then, she smirked again. “But that was your punishment. You haven’t earned my touch yet.”

Éponine cackled as Montparnasse swore frantically, scrambling off of him, fumbling with the buttons of her trousers. 

“Don’t be so impatient,” she said, stripping the trousers off of her bony hips. “You are not the only one with needs Montparnasse. Besides, I think you might enjoy this.” 

“I hate you,” he said again, his voice far too weak, far closer to a whine than he liked.

“I’m sure,” she said, climbing back over him, crawling up his body. “Now lick me.”

Montparnasse could smell her as she crawled over his face, bracing her knees on either side of his head, and despite his talk, he did want this. His cock was so hard it hurt, rubbing against the linen of his nightshirt, but he had no more desire to protest, not as she sunk down over his face, burying him in her cunt. And she must have liked choking him quite a bit, because she was dripping wet, even without having been touched herself. 

“Yes,” she moaned as he licked up into her, her wetness dripping into his mouth. “Yes, ah, there… See, isn’t this a better use for your mouth?”

He responded only by attaching his mouth over her clit and sucking roughly, which effectively ended her taunting as she squealed, her hands flying into his hair, anchoring herself to him as she rocked her hips. 

They fell into a pattern like that, her rocking her hips, moaning wordlessly as he ran his tongue along the length of her cunt, licking and sucking as she pulled his hair.  

It didn’t take long - Éponine’s strange mood had her sensitive and on edge, and it didn’t take long for Montparnasse to push her over that edge. When she came, she came with a shout, squeezing her thighs and grabbing his hair so hard that all he could sense was her - and then it was over. She collapsed backwards, sprawling across his body awkwardly, gasping, and air once again hit him with a rush.

“Good boy,” she gasped after a second. “You can have your treat now.”

Then, finally, she pushed up his nightshirt and put her hands on his cock. 

Her hands were not soft, nor were they gentle. Montparnasse did not need them to be.

“Be quick now,” she said, voice still breathless as she shifted into a more comfortable position, kneeling over him as she pumped his cock. “I won’t do this for much longer, and I would hate to leave you like this.” 

She didn’t mean it in the way Montparnasse took it exactly, but regardless, his mind was flooded with the image of what torture it would be if she left him tied up and hard, all night long-

And he let out a choked, hoarse gasp as he came, spilling onto her hand. 

Éponine cackled again as Montparnasse slumped into the bed, tension bleeding out of his body. 

“Really,” she said, laughing. “The thought of me denying you? How wonderfully counterproductive.”

“Don’t you dare wipe that off on my clothes” grumbled Montparnasse tiredly, glaring at Éponine’s come covered hand. Exhaustion was taking him over - she had woke him up after all - but he would still murder her if she soiled his waistcoat over her deviant fantasies.

“I ought to make you clean it with your mouth,” Éponine mused, before wiping her hand on his bedsheets. Montparnasse frowned at her slightly, but said nothing - certainly not that he might have obeyed that particular whim. 

Éponine untied him after that, and Montparnasse sat up, rubbing his chafed skin. 

“Now,” said Éponine, crossing her legs in his bed. “After all that, you must let me spend the night.”

“Must I?” 

“I said so, didn’t I?”

Montparnasse wasn’t stupid. Éponine was looking for a place to spend the night - a roof over her head that didn’t also house her father. Nothing more or less. Montparnasse was not a beacon of charity, but perhaps he could allow it this once. Mainly, he didn’t want to stand to kick her out. 

“Do as you wish,” he said, waving his hand. “But remove my clothes and put your skirt back on. I won’t have you wrinkling them.”

For once Éponine was the one that obeyed.

“It's fine,” she said, unbuttoning the waistcoat. “I just wanted to see how they would work.”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes, before rolling over in bed, away from her. “I do not care what your plans for trousers are Éponine, as long as they aren’t my trousers.”

Éponine laughed again, a softer laugh this time, and shortly after she crawled into the cot next to him.

Montparnasse slept well that night, despite an elbow that poked him in the ribs all night. When he awoke the next morning, he was alone, and his clothes were strewn about his floor.

“Horrible girl,” he sighed, before picking up his waistcoat to dress for the day.   
  



End file.
